


simple pleasures

by Destina



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-17
Updated: 2009-05-17
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4200828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen loves Jared's bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	simple pleasures

**Author's Note:**

> Written for girlmostlikely and posted to LJ in May 2009; posted to AO3 in June 2015.

Jensen loves Jared's bed. It's big and sturdy and has soft blue sheets that smell like Tide and cinnamon toothpaste and bacon, even when they're just-washed. There are a billion soft pillows that apparently have magical properties; the minute Jensen's head touches them, he's out like a light. The comforter is a blue-green-teal thing, fluffy and warm, just right for wrapping up in when the heat's off in the house. Plus there's a giant plasma TV hanging on the wall right in front of it, just begging to be watched. 

Which explains why - despite the fact that Jensen has a perfectly good bed of his own right downstairs - he makes toast and coffee and carries it upstairs to Jared's room at 10AM on their Sunday off, and pushes the door open with the tips of his bare toes. Jared is huddled under the comforter, one hand and some hair poking out, but there's plenty of room on the other side of the bed. Jensen puts one mug of coffee down on the bedside table closest to Jared, then trots around to the other side and climbs on. He sticks his feet under the end of the comforter and sighs. Pure bliss. 

The remote is under Jared's elbow. It takes a little surreptitious rooting to find it, but once he comes up victorious, Jensen turns the first game of the day on mute and munches his toast happily, propped up on two of the pillows Jared is conveniently not using. 

It takes about three minutes for the scent of fresh coffee to rouse the zombie from his slumber. Jared makes that strange snorfling cough that indicates his brain is coming online and turns his head toward Jensen. "Is there toast?" he says, voice raspy and low. 

Jensen holds out his last bite, and Jared actually gobbles it from his fingers, then puts his head back down on the pillow. A second later, he flails out a hand, connects with the mug, and draws it under the covers toward the approximate place where his mouth is. Semi-obscene gulping sounds come next, but Jensen drowns them out by turning the sound on, and the game blazes to life. 

"Second quarter," Jensen says. "Want the score?"

"Soon." Jared raises up suddenly, shedding covers and a pillow all at once, and his tousled hair flops into his face. He sets the mug down on the table and pushes his hair back with both hands, then squints at the TV for a second. "Shower now."

Jensen makes a noncommittal sound of approval. Not that he minds how Jared smells. He hasn't even noticed it. Ever. He makes a point of not smelling Jared. Though the bed-warm smell of his skin is actually very nice, sort of manly and comfortable, familiar like all things Jared always are. But Jensen's ignoring that. 

Jared throws himself toward the edge of the bed and manages to get enough momentum to swing his legs over. Then he stumbles toward the bathroom and slams the door, and a second later, the water turns on. 

With a grin, Jensen collects his mug, and Jared's, and gets out of bed. A carafe of caffeine is going to be needed. And bagels. And the papers. 

**

Jared emerges from the shower in a cloud of sandalwood-scented steam, skin shining red and with a towel draped over his head. Jensen eyes him with amusement, then returns to rummaging through Jared's sock drawer, where red-striped and black-patterned socks are intertwined with plain white crew socks and fancy soft dress socks like unraveled threads. Jensen selects two socks based on their softness - one white, one black, because they each seem to be without a mate - and climbs back on the bed, where he proceeds to pull them on. The black sock matches his black sweatpants, more or less; the white one doesn't match his grey t-shirt at all, but hey. It's Sunday. 

"Do you even have any socks that match?" he asks Jared, who is pouring more coffee for them both. 

"Only when I'm wearing them," Jared says, as if that makes perfect sense. "When they're in the drawer, I let them choose their own friends." 

"Your socks are very sociable." Jensen leans across the bed and pulls Jared's copy of the latest script off the table. "Want to run lines?" 

"I think I've got it." Jared shoves at Jensen until he is out of the way, then climbs in bed and relaxes against the pillows, four thousand miles of tallness compacted into half the king-sized bed. He takes the script from Jensen and flips to a random page. "Dean. You don't understand. I am evil and complicated, Dean. I like to fuck demons. Gimme a break, okay Dean?"

Jensen snorts and pulls the script away from him. He takes a deep breath, and then he chokes out a couple of very loud fake sobs, right from the depths of Dean's tortured soul. Out in the hallway, Sadie barks in response. 

"Yep. You've got it too." Jared takes the script back and throws it on the floor. Then he squirrels the remote away from Jensen and changes the channel. 

"Your dogs would like to thank you for not running their tiny legs off this morning." Jensen scratches his chest, thinking about how once upon a time, the dogs would bowl him over to get to Jared on those rare mornings when Jared wasn't out the door with the rising sun, ready to take them three miles. Nowdays they are just as happy to horse around with Jensen in the yard, and it's become one more part of the Sunday routine. 

"You should thank me for not running your tiny legs off, too." Jared pats him on the knee. "Thought you were going to cough up a lung yesterday in the park." 

"I might have, but Harley would have eaten it." 

"Nah, he just would have chewed on it a while." Jared sits up again, just as Jensen is getting comfortable. "You feed them already?"

"No, I thought I'd let them starve, moron." Jensen pulls the paper to him and fishes out the sports section, only to have Jared pluck it from his hand a hot second later. He sighs and keeps going, on to the business section, then puts the rest down on the bed between them. 

For a while, they read in comfortable silence, broken only by the variable noise from the TV as Jared randomly changes channels every time he finishes a section of the paper. Jensen catches himself smiling for no reason once or twice. It should be weird, maybe, spending Sunday mornings in bed with Jared, just hanging out. Should be, but it isn't. It just sort of happened, that first time; Jared being lazy with the dogs sprawled on the bed, hollering to Jensen to bring him a beer, and then Jensen stood there beside him watching the game for a half an hour, until Jared told him to sit his ass down. Then it was the four of them in the bed, beers and dog-breath and the game, and Jensen fell asleep there, comfortable as could be. 

Next thing Jensen knew, it was a regular Sunday thing, no more invitations needed, no discussions. Just easy, like everything with Jared is easy. 

Jensen thinks sometimes that maybe he should think it over, figure out what the hell they're doing, but then Jared flashes him that huge grin, or whacks him with the rolled up paper while demanding more coffee, and proves it's no big deal. So Jensen forces himself to stop questioning every goddamn thing about it. If Jared can be happy and uncomplicated, Jensen can be, too. 

Paper-reading morphs into checking emails on their phones, and every couple of minutes, they pass the phones back and forth, sharing emails from various friends, agents, family members. When Jared's stomach starts to growl, Jensen picks up the empty carafe and the mugs and says, "I'm getting a sandwich. Want one?"

"Ham," Jared says, now fiddling with his phone and playing Texas Hold 'Em on Jensen's at more or less the same time, which is pretty impressive. "Mayo. Hold the mustard."

The dogs have been creeping ever closer to the door throughout the morning, and the moment Jensen breaks the threshold on his way out, it's a free-for-all, fur and paws and slobbering everywhere as they leap toward Jared on the bed. Another unwritten rule, and Jensen wonders how exactly it happened that Jared puts him before the dogs, now.

And how the dogs somehow just know. 

He thinks about that absently on his way downstairs to the kitchen, and while he's rummaging through his room looking for the book he was reading last Tuesday, and while he's in the bathroom checking the bruises from last week's shoot to see how much extra time he'll have to spend in the makeup chair in the morning. He's spreading mayo and mustard on thick slices of sourdough bread and he thinks about how he's spent the last five hours in bed with Jared. In bed. With Jared. Just like he has the last seven weeks running. 

"Uncomplicated," he tells the jar of mayonnaise. "I can do uncomplicated." 

A couple deep breaths later, he's got a platter of sandwiches and two beers tucked under his left arm, his book under his right arm. His foot has barely hit the top step when he hears Jared say, "Go on, now, get," and the dogs come bounding out of Jared's room, rushing past Jensen and down the stairs toward...whatever happy things dogs do when they're not slobbering on their master. 

"Wow," Jensen says, as Jared shakes dog hair off the comforter and arranges it on the bed. "That is an impressive amount of hair." 

Jared shakes his head and makes kissy lips at Jensen; dog hair falls off his shoulder. Jensen bursts out laughing, and Jared watches him with a little smile, and then a grin. Then he gets off the bed and helps unload sandwiches and beers, nudging Jensen toward the bed with his shoulder. 

They eat like pigs while watching reruns of Friends - Jared has a thing for Jennifer Aniston - and when Jared produces a bag of stale popcorn from somewhere in the mysterious depths of the bedside table, they share that, too. Jensen sighs contentedly and licks salt from his fingers. Jared fidgets next to him, and Jensen doesn't quite catch him watching, but it makes his neck a little hot anyway, and he wipes his hand off self-consciously on his shirt. 

"Want to go downstairs? Throw a football around or something?" Jensen asks, though really, he feels more like marrying the bed than putting shoes on. 

"Nah. I'm'a kick your ass for a while right here." Jared fishes around for the game controllers. By unspoken mutual agreement, there's about an hour of intense battle for Warhawk supremacy, during which Jared uses the word motherfucker so often it starts to sound like poetry. 

In the middle of it, Jensen falls asleep.

He doesn't really mean to; it just happens. His shoulder is touching Jared's shoulder (which is jerking around constantly, banging into him with irregular rhythm), and he has extra pillows behind him propping him up, and he's comfortable right down to his bones. His eyes drift closed and the next thing he knows, he's stirring sleepily and the light in the room is different - the curtains are half closed, the TV is off. 

Normally by this time of day, they'd have moved on to something else, like heading out to see friends, or doing errands. But Jared's still there, and he's reading something, maybe a script, or a magazine. Jensen watches him for a while, because he can. There's a scratch across Jared's shoulder that goes clear across and under the bunched-up wifebeater. No stubble; he must have shaved. He's relaxed, one leg drawn up, the other straight, the script balanced on his raised knee. Almost no one ever sees this Jared. They all think he can't sit still, can't be serious, but Jensen knows better. It makes him a little smug. 

He tries to stay awake, to keep watching, but he's too tired, and the last thing he really remembers is warmth at his side, and something that feels suspiciously like Jared's long arm across his belly. 

The second time, when he wakes, Jared is propped up on one elbow, watching him. Jensen blinks, then smiles. "Fuck, what time is it?"

"Almost four." Jared's got an intense look on his face. The kind of look that's definitely not uncomplicated. 

"Why aren't you downstairs doing...something? Washing the truck, or..." Jensen stretches, and realizes that Jared's hand is on his stomach, warm and heavy. His breath catches, awkwardly, and he looks up at Jared, who chooses that moment to run his fingers through Jensen's hair. It feels good, long slow strokes, Jared's big hand, and Jensen goes with it. They've been headed here all along, maybe, and now it's just time. Everything seems centered in Jared's hands on him, and so he reaches out, slips a hand beneath Jared's tank, to the smooth skin underneath. At his touch, Jared takes a slow, deep breath. 

Jared scoots down in the bed, and aligns himself with Jensen. "Hey," he says, and before Jensen even has a chance to think the word 'complicated', Jared presses his mouth gently to Jensen's, opening him right up with slow kisses. 

Jensen shifts onto his side, so now they're facing each other, and Jared's hand shifts from his stomach to cup his face. More kisses, deep and familiar, like they've been doing it forever, but the quick electric thrill shivering up Jensen's spine is new, and addictive. 

Jared breaks off and lifts his head, studying Jensen like he's expecting to read his heart in his expression. Maybe he can. Jensen thinks for a crazy moment that he's been split in two, everything he holds close to the vest now hanging out in the open where Jared can see it. 

"You look good in my bed," Jared says quietly. He leans in, noses at Jensen's neck, and Jensen tilts his head, makes approving noises when Jared skims teeth down the fast pulse there. "Think you should stay here." 

"Might make work kinda difficult." Jensen pushes Jared onto his back and takes his time exploring his mouth; Jared's hands land on his ass, and on his back, and in two seconds flat they are underneath his clothes and pressing Jensen closer. 

"Think we should take this slow?" Jared asks, while he's pulling Jensen's T-shirt over his head. 

"Christ, Jared, three and a half years isn't slow enough for you?" Jensen is nothing if not efficient and well-practiced, and it only takes him the space of one sentence to get Jared's clothes off. 

"You made me sandwiches," Jared murmurs into his mouth, shoving at Jensen's sweatpants. Jensen kicks them off and then Jared shifts them, body to body, so Jensen is on top of him, straddling him. He pulls Jensen down, and Jensen arches into Jared's hands, gets his mouth back against Jared's for more of those kisses he's so damn good at. 

Then it's just slow friction, Jensen setting the pace and Jared touching him everywhere, cocks together, bodies moving, quiet and focused until Jared whispers "I fucking love you," just blurts it out like he can't help himself, and Jensen comes in the tight circle of Jared's fist, fingers locked on Jared's shoulders. He shifts, moves, and Jared comes, not even a minute behind him. 

Jensen closes his eyes, because maybe it was in the heat of the moment, but complicated has definitely found them now. He sighs and sits up on his knees, dizzy, messy, and Jared wipes them both down with Jensen's shirt. "Hey!" Jensen says, grinning, but Jared narrows his eyes and tosses the T-shirt away. 

"You don't need that." Jared tumbles him down into the bed. Jensen kisses him some more, teasing kisses that make Jared grumble and Jensen laugh. 

Eventually, Jared draws the comforter up over their legs, but he doesn't let go of Jensen. Instead he pulls Jensen down deeper into the bed, tangles them together like he's afraid Jensen will try to escape. 

"You're right," Jensen says sleepily. "I should stay here." 

"Damn straight." Jared's words are breath on the back of Jensen's neck, and Jensen can't really remember why he thought anything about this would be complicated. 

**

By the next morning, Jensen's familiar with how far away the alarm clock is on Jared's nightstand, and where the lamp is in proportion to how long his arms are, and how to burrow up close to Jared without waking him in the middle of the night. It makes him smile, and he turns his head to see Jared grinning, too, goofy and mussed and handsome. 

"Morning," Jared says, kissing him, morning breath and all, and Jensen can't get enough. 

Jensen's pretty sure that those bed-related daydreams he used to have on set - the ones about snuggling down underneath the comforter and the well-worn flannel sheets each Sunday, rain or shine - aren't going to be about sleeping, anymore.


End file.
